Shackled
by Valerie E. Mackin
Summary: After nearly ten years, Sam Winchester calls Miriam Bard to collect on a life debt. Unfortunately for Miriam, Sam leaves out a few important details. Warning: Implied loss of family, grieving, depression, cursing, Demon!Dean, Sam's tendency to leave out vital details for folks helping him to save Dean (read: Sam's tendency to be a Winchester)


_**Author's Note**__: This story would not be possible without incog_ninja, who convinced me to write and finish this story, cheered me on every step of the way, and convinced me that even after over a year of not finishing a single thing, I hadn't lost my writing after all. MJ, thank you for poking the story til it squeaked. And for the banner. And lots and lots of other things. If you're reading this, hi! Have a seat and strap in, it's gonna be a bumpy ride (in the best way!)._

"_Hey, Miriam, it's Sam...Sam Winchester...I don't know if you remember me from-"_

"_I remember you, Sam. Not likely to forget a Winchester, much less...it's one in the morning, what's up?"_

"_I need to call in that favor."_

"_All right. Where do you need me?"_

…

Miriam stared blearily at the road as it stretched out in an infinite blur of dismal sameness, each expanse of asphalt and surrounding fields a dreary replica of the one before.

The last couple hundred or so miles had been hypnotically wretched, especially with the remnants of her headache hanging on by the tips of its claws since Sam Winchester had woken her with a phone call a few hours ago.

Caffeine and aspirin had taken the edges off, but straining her eyes into the endless darkness, alternating occasionally with too-bright headlights shattering the night (_fucking halogens_), had done nothing to ease the sharp ache that wouldn't quite dissipate.

If she was being honest, the headache had been hanging around much longer than just a few hours, and if Sam's call hadn't woken her, the nightmares would have. They always did. She couldn't really remember what an uninterrupted night of sleep felt like anymore. Exhaustion was her state of existence; it was preferable to feeling anything else.

"Suck it up, Miri," she muttered into the muffled quiet of the car. Even her GPS was set on silent; the soft hum of the engine was the only noise she allowed to permeate her cocoon of quiet suffering.

Aaron would have been blasting some stupid metal band on the stereo, slapping her hand away every time she went to turn it down or change the station. He wouldn't offer to drive and let her sleep off any physical maladies, but she wouldn't have accepted anyway. He was a shit driver, and she always said she'd rather live long enough to let the next case kill her rather than the inevitable wreck if her brother was behind the wheel.

"Suck it up, Miri! Take another pill and quit whining!" he would have told her in the middle of an air drum solo.

_Would have_.

"Shut up," Miriam muttered aloud. She drove on.

She pulled up outside something she would have dismissed as public waterworks or an electric station if Sam hadn't told her what to look for. No cars outside, no mailbox, nothing to tell her this was an actual residence and not the setting for a seventies slaughterhouse flick. She checked her phone.

_Text me when you get here; I'll come let you in._

Alrighty, then.

Sam met her at the door and led her into the last sort of place Miriam could have imagined, a cross between a sci-fi/post-apocalypse novel and some sort of Cold War relic. He gave her the briefest of explanations as he led her through the bunker, saying something about legacies and a secret society, information which mostly passed right through her fatigue-addled head.

_Pretty nice home base_, she thought as they walked through the meeting room and past the library.

The research-oriented part of her itched to run her fingers over the spines of those books, to find out what was inside. Miriam cringed internally as she heard the echo of Aaron's voice calling her a nerd, equal parts affection and ridicule in his voice. Then she throttled the pain down, locked the thoughts away, and dragged herself back to the present.

A few minutes later, Miriam was slinging her duffel down on one of the nicest beds she'd been able to claim in any capacity in months, maybe even years. Absolutely spartan and about six decades out of date, almost military in decor, but it was clean, and it had air, electricity, and both sheets _and_ blankets on the bed. No nasty or rotten surprises left by former inhabitants; definitely an upgrade on a few of the shitholes she'd stayed in.

"We've got a fully stocked kitchen just down the hallway, and showers. Let me know if you need anything," Sam said, rubbing the back of his head awkwardly.

Miriam decided to save him further discomfort and cut to the chase.

"Fancy digs, Sam. It's been a few years. You wanna tell me what's got you so bothered?"

She'd noticed a distinct lack of the elder Winchester on the way in, but Miriam's own recent history had done nothing if not jam a filter firmly in her mouth that kept her from sharing any and all thoughts that flowed through her mind.

Sam's mouth quivered at the corners before he schooled his features into a mask of control that failed to hide the depth of his worry.

"I...Dean is why I called you. It's...complicated."

She took advantage of the awkward pause to re-evaluate Sam Winchester. He'd aged a lot in the few years since she and Aaron had run across the Winchesters. He'd grown broader since she last saw him, and he gave the impression of being even taller than she remembered, to say nothing of the length of his hair. She resisted the urge to offer him a hair tie for his shaggy mane.

Her gaze flicked down to his injured right arm, bound to his chest in a sling. She waited for several beats, but when he didn't continue, she crossed her arms sternly, letting a shade of her impatience show on her face.

"_You_ called _me_, Sam."

Sam cleared his throat as if he still couldn't get the words out. Miriam sighed. Her headache flared, burning the inside of her skull like a wash of acid between her eyes. Fatigue pulled at her, weighing her down towards the bed, but she locked her knees and straightened her back until she could trust her weary body not to betray her to gravity.

"Sam, we're not close friends, I get that, but you called me here because I owe you, and hopefully because you know you can count on me. I haven't been in the field recently, wasn't planning on it any time soon. I'm tired; it's been a hell of a year. If you want my help, talk to me. If not, I'm taking advantage of your hospitality to catch a few hours sleep in a decent bed, then I'll head back out."

"Dean's a demon."

His bald declaration woke her as the coffee she'd consumed after his phone call hadn't.

_Wasn't expecting that_, she thought as her eyebrows threatened to meet her hairline.

"Demons aren't my area of expertise, Sam. And, let's be honest, it's fairly common knowledge that the Winchesters can exorcise a demon. What do you need me for?"

Sam shook his head, tension making the movement jerky and stiff as his jaw tightened. He had circles under his eyes to rival hers, and his shoulders slumped with a weight she knew all too well.

He reached up, awkwardly tugging down the neckline of his shirt to reveal a tattooed symbol she vaguely recalled from research she'd done years ago.

"Neither of us can be possessed," he said, shrugging his shirt back into place with a wince of discomfort. "Dean is...Look, just come with me; I need to check on him anyway. You'll see."

Making a physical effort to keep her jaw from hanging slack, Miriam followed Sam from the small bedroom. The whole situation was surreal, and the bland, institutional walls of the bunker only added to Miriam's sense of dissociation.

She raised a curious eyebrow as Sam led her into what looked like nothing so much as a large file storage room.

Their footsteps echoed strangely; the space felt somehow emptier than the full shelves should have allowed. The ceiling, higher than what seemed necessary, continued much further back than the shelves. And what kind of shelving needed caging to connect it to the ceiling? The metal screen wasn't what drew her attention, though.

The second she set foot in the room, Miriam felt an inexplicable pull to look behind those shelves, to push past Sam and shove the files out of the way. There was a presence in the room, something that spoke to a place deep inside her that she'd trained herself not to acknowledge, something familiar and forbidden all at once.

For the first time in months, she felt something more than tired, foggy despair.

Whatever was back there, Miriam _wanted_ it.

It took her a second to realize that Sam was speaking.

"Don't...um...don't let him get to you, okay? It's Dean, but it...isn't," Sam finished lamely with a grimace.

Miriam tilted her head to the side, considering his words. She opened her mouth, then closed it and shrugged, bracing herself for whatever it was Sam didn't seem to be able to explain.

His shoulders slumped for a moment as he struggled to pull himself together.

Miriam hadn't spent much time with the Winchesters, just the couple of weeks they'd worked that witch case all those years ago. Sam and Dean had been so in tune with each other, working the case with instinct and skill on a level that she'd both admired and envied. Then they went and saved her stupid brother.

Sam had been so much younger, then, not exactly sure of himself, but much more solid and in control than the tired, injured man in front of her.

"I owe you, and I mean it," she'd said back then, shaking first Dean's and then Sam's hands, looking each brother in the eyes.

"You need someone to watch your back, to help you take something down, I'll be there. I wouldn't normally speak for that asshole," she nodded at her younger brother, currently sleeping off the leftover ill effects from the hex bag that had nearly taken his life, "but I'll go ahead and vouch for his dumb ass, too. Call me if you need me. Don't lose my number."

She hadn't heard from them since.

Oh, she had heard plenty _of_ them. What hunter hadn't? All sorts of misadventures and exploits, taking down creatures most hunters had only ever heard of, much less encountered. But Miriam had gotten no phone calls from them, no requests for help. She figured they'd probably forgotten her and Aaron the moment they'd left town, rock blasting from the speakers of their legendary Impala as they cruised on to the next town, the next case.

"Why now, Sam?" Miriam asked quietly. "After all this time, why call me now?"

There were approximately a thousand more questions she wanted to ask, chiefly what the cage behind those shelves was holding, but she held her tongue after the one. Sam had obviously brought her here for a reason, so she reminded herself to be patient and ready for whatever happened next.

The younger Winchester hung his head for a moment longer, then turned eyes on her that were so familiar, her heart seized in her chest. She saw those same eyes every time she'd looked at her own reflection in the mirror since she'd returned from that last job, with one more scar and one less brother.

"Because I knew you'd understand."

And then Sam straightened, and she watched as he willed steel through his limbs, stiffening his spine and hardening his features. He pulled on a narrow section of shelving and rolled it out of the way.

"Heya, Sammy."


End file.
